


What's Next

by Zenigen



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angsty Jon Snow, M/M, Past Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, probably a slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23609842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zenigen/pseuds/Zenigen
Summary: After graduating from university, Jon Snow returns to his hometown of Manchester, NH, aimless and still recovering from recent heartbreak. Already overwhelmed by the uncertain future of post-graduate life, Jon is met with an unexpected change to one of the few things he had hoped to find familiar. With a new member added to his old band in his absence, Jon must manage to figure out these changes as he disembarks into adulthood.
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a modern AU, because I'm addicted to them, and there's never enough of this ship! The title is a WIP, and I'll add tags as they come along. I hope y'all enjoy!

Jon holds the neck of his guitar close to his chest and tries to focus on the fretting, rather than the strange man next to him. Which, due to the man’s size, is quite difficult. That, and Jon was accustomed to sharing the stage with only Ygritte and his sister. No one had had the foresight to spike their positions prior to the show, and, seeing that this was their first gig with the four of them, some cramptness was understandable. Still, when Jon went to stand in his usual spot stage right and was met with a broad chested, six-foot, red-headed giant, he was more than a little startled. Trading communication for awkward shuffling and silence, Jon found himself a few inches from precariously close to the edge of the stage. If the man hadn’t insisted on more fully sharing the space, Jon would be nothing short of off the platform entirely. Fortunately, their set was brief and almost over, and Tuesday evenings at The Half Pint didn’t garner large crowds. Not that Jon thought their sound was bad. In fact, the way they sounded with two guitarists surprised him in a good way, but the combination of performance and social anxiety was starting to get to him. 

As Arya hits her last note and the rhythm fades, Jon gives their small crowd a nod and a five second courtesy for applause before unplugging from the amp and jumping off the foot high stage. Ignoring the crowd and his bandmates alike, he rushes through the nearby door to the kitchen and outback into the parking lot. Jon reaches into his coat pocket, shuffling around for his keys, and unlocks the trunk upon finding them. In its bed sits a carefully curated collection of non sequitur objects and belongings gathered from his time at college. Several textbooks, a jet black soccer jersey, and his old journal greet him like the timeless friends they are. However, they all fall to the peripheral of Jon’s vision as his eyes linger on a mahogany hand-crafted box, the memory of its previous owner staring back at him vividly in his mind. Jon shakes off the images of green eyes and the twisted feeling in his chest, transfers his guitar from his body to its bag, and firmly shuts the trunk. As the latch clicks, a shout from behind interrupts him.

“Jon!” It’s Arya.

He turns to face her. “Yeah?” She’s surprisingly close.

Briskly stepping past him, she sits against the back of his sedan. “You’re not leaving already, are you?”

Jon pockets his hands and motions to speak, but she continues before he can find the words to respond.

“You should stay. I’d like to spend some time with my brother before he retreats back to his room, only to be seen when he’s hungry,” she says. 

He gives her a forced, genuine smile. “Of course I’m staying.” Despite his best efforts, Jon knows his eyes give way to his lack of confidence in the statement. 

“It’s Tormund, isn’t it?” Arya observes more than asks. 

In response, Jon sighs and joins his sister to rest on his car. “Part of it.” 

Arya pulls out a thin, pen shaped object from her pocket and hands it to him. 

He unshelters a hand and takes it from her, examining it, and throws her a knowing look. “Where did you get this?”

She gives him a quick smile and tosses her gaze to the darkening sky. “It’s CBD,” she says. “Mostly.”

He knows he should be taking a more authoritative stance as the older sibling in this situation, but Jon can only muster a soft laugh under his breath, understanding any half-hearted discipline on his end would make no difference. The only person who could tell Arya what to do was Arya, and maybe their father on a good day. Holding the device to his lips, he takes in a long breath, holds it, and releases a stream of smoke. He coughs as he passes the device back to Arya, who takes a quick hit before returning to their previous topic.

“He’s nice, you know,” she says. “You’d like him.” 

Jon grimaces, partially from the feeling in his lungs and partially from the feeling in his chest. “I’m sure he is.” He exhales, a rasp still tickling his throat, his breath starting to become visible in the cool air. “Ygritte wouldn’t have asked him to fill in for me, and you wouldn’t have kept him around if he wasn’t a decent man.”

“Well,” she begins, “I probably would regardless. He’s a really good guitarist.” Arya passes the pen back to him. “But, he’s plenty good as a person, too.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” Jon says.

“But you still don’t want to meet him.” 

Jon takes another draw. He was fine meeting him, he was just wary of knowing him. In another situation where the pressures of friendship and intimacy weren’t so immediate and present, Jon would be having a less dizzying time processing his responses to the authenticity of Tormund’s gestures, which so far had been very full. The man had engulfed Jon in a bear hug within minutes of meeting him, which was nice if not a bit overwhelming. The only people he was used to showing such affection were his family and close friends, the latter of which Jon had very few of. That, and the honest comfort he felt from the gesture reminded him of recent wounds he was trying to forget. His response to the hug had been a curt smile accented with a nod followed by avoidance. He worried his awkward nature was off-putting to his new bandmate, or, worse, that Jon had come off as put off. 

“He’s going to think you don’t like him, if he doesn’t already,” she says, leaning into him.

Jon takes another deep breath that catches in his chest. “But I don’t. Not like him, that is,” he quickly clarifies. “I don’t don’t like him.”

“Well he’s not going to know that if you stick to silence,” she counters, “and he’s going to think you do don’t like him if you keep this act up. You have to at least be a little friendly.”

“Yeah, I know.” 

Pushing off him, she turns on her heels to face Jon directly. “So, why aren’t you?”

Jon’s thoughts catch on each other as he’s honestly unable to find a concrete answer for her. Lacking the words, he takes another hit in lieu of a response. 

Seeing his nervousness, Arya pedals back her interrogation. “You don’t have to talk to him tonight, but you’re going to have to eventually. We’ve got at least a summer’s worth of practice and playing.”

Jon coughs again, and, seeing an opportunity, shifts the subject. “We _only_ have a summer’s worth of practice and playing; you’re going to university,” he retorts. “I had to and so do you.”

Arya takes her pen back from her brother’s hand, sheathing it in her pocket once more and eyeing Jon knowingly before extending an open palm to him. “If you promise you’ll be moving out by the end of summer, too.”

He recoils slightly from his sister, trying to evaluate her angle. “What d’ya mean?”

“You’ve been moping around all month,” she says. “Tonight’s the first night you’ve really been out since you’ve been back. I’ve never seen you so lost, Jon.”

Her words sting in the pit of his stomach, striking a truth that Jon hasn’t been able to articulate even to himself. Jon sees the genuine concern in Arya’s eyes and feels the urge to develop the conversation, but his worries of worrying her take precedence in his mind. His problems, Jon thinks, can wait a little longer. Swatting her words out of the air, he gathers all the enthusiasm he can, which isn’t much. “Come on, Arya; I’ll be fine,” he says, forcing a laugh. “Always have been, always will.”

Arya’s arm remains steadfast, her hand awaiting reciprocation. “Once I know you’ll be fine on your own I can leave without a problem.” Her lips curl coyly into a grin. “You and I both know this town is too small for either of us.”

At her words, and with a little help from the weed, for a moment Jon’s tension collapses. Releasing a breath he had been holding for weeks, an honest smile meets his face like a familiar stranger. “All right,” he says, taking her grip in his. They share a nod in agreement, but as Jon motions to release the ritual, Arya’s grip tightens. 

Softly tugging the both of them together, Arya’s grin widens. “And you have to start communicating with Tormund outside of practice,” she says, releasing his hand, “and at practice, too. You know,” she starts to walk backwards toward the pub, continuing to face Jon, “like a person.”

“Arya,” Jon begins, returning her light-hearted tone, “you can’t be changing deals while you’re making them.”

Arya simply pulls her pen from her pocket, draws a short hit, and spins back toward the outer kitchen door as she releases the smoke.

Unable to restrain his laughter, Jon lets the comforting presence of his sister sink into him. Her analysis of his disposition still rings in Jon’s head, but he has at least her to go to, he thinks. Underneath the twilight of a fading sunset, her glow instills a semblance of possibility within Jon. In the face of his anxieties, it was a small foothold, but a foothold nonetheless. As his sister disappears through the door, Jon follows suit with a new breath, ready to meet the other faces in the pub.


	2. Chapter 2

When Jon reenters the pub their equipment has already been replaced by another performer, a soft lul of acoustic classic rock filling the atmosphere of the bar. He scans the patrons, but none of his ensemble - not even Arya, quick as she is - are to be seen amongst the crowd. Assuming they’re loading their personal amps and Ygritte’s drum set into her truck, Jon moves to the front door to assist his bandmates; however, before Jon can make a break past the bar, a familiar face behind the counter beckons him over. Despite the guilt he feels at the thought of leaving the others to load out on their own, Jon takes the opportunity to stave off fulfilling his deal to Arya. After all, this was another conversation he had been avoiding. Baby steps, he thinks. As Jon approaches the corner of the bar, he receives the exact tongue-in-cheek greeting he was expecting.

“Well,” Tyrion starts, “the great Jon Snow has finally decided to grace me with his presence.” 

Jon leans against the counter, barely bringing his eyes up from it to meet the other man’s. “Hello, Tyrion.”

“I welcome you and your friends into my establishment, give you stage time for years and free beer, but now you’re suddenly incapable of saying hello?” Tyrion quips, juxtaposing his sarcasm with puppy dog eyes. “I’m hurt, Jon. Truly I am. Do you think my wisdom obsolete now that you’re a college graduate?”

“Of course not,” Jon says apologetically. “I’m sorry for not coming to see you sooner.”

“Hey!” Tyrion snaps. “I’m messing with you,” he rectifies, quickly assuaging his tone. Stepping down from a raised platform, Tyrion retreats to the taps on the wall opposite of the bar and grabs a chilled glass, filling it with a pale ale before returning to his position. “I’m sure your education has taught you much, but you still have yet to learn how to take a joke,” he continues, handing Jon the drink. “You have bigger things to worry about than stopping by some pub.”

Jon lifts his gaze to meet Tyrion’s. “But I could’ve come by sooner, and I didn’t.”

“Well you’re here now,” Tyrion states matter-of-factly, “and between those two facts, I know which I’d rather focus on. Which would you?”

In response, Jon smiles at his own doubts, appreciating the man’s ability to liquidate his worries. “How’ve you been, Tyrion?”

“You know how I’ve been,” he says, “ready for an early retirement that’s further off than I’d like, and teaching and drinking in the meantime. Not much else to think about or do in Manchester, as you are well aware.” Tyrion leans over the counter as much as his height can allow. “I’m certain the topic of how Jon Snow has been is far more interesting. You were abroad over winter; I’m sure there’s a good story there.”

Jon looks over to the entrance, stifling the feelings rising in his chest. Tyrion was right. There was a story, and, from an outsider’s perspective, he was sure it was interesting. “It’s not that interesting,” he says, trying to dismiss the topic as nonchalantly as he can. “Just an internship doing research in England, trying to figure out what’s next.” 

“You went with Dany, I remember your father saying.”

At the name, Jon breathes in sharply. “I did.”

Tyrion inquisitively cocks his head to the side, giving Jon a subtly piercing look. “Where is she, by the way? She’s come with you every visit over the past year or so.”

“We broke up,” Jon answers and takes a drawn out drink of his beer.

“Ah,” Tyrion says, offering Jon a penitent stare before turning to his other bartender. “Pod, two shots of whiskey. The good stuff. Make them double.”

Setting down his drink, Jon continued, “She wanted me to move out to Europe with her, but I-” His mouth hangs open, his voice leaving him.

Podrick comes over from behind Tyrion, both shots in hand. Tyrion thanks him and takes them, keeping one in hand and setting the other in front of Jon. Jon looks between the dark brown liquid and Tyrion, who raises his and nods to the one set on the counter. Huffing out a breath of stagnant air, Jon picks it up and clinks it with Tyrion’s before throwing it back. The liquor stings his throat and forces a frown onto Jon’s face. Still, while he’s not an experienced drinker, in this moment Jon is unsure if the source of the pain in his gut is the poison of the drink or his memory. In either case, he straightens his back and tries to clear his throat of the feeling. 

“I’m sorry to hear the news,” Tyrion says.

Still a bit mute, for no clear reason to himself Jon shakes his head. “I’m sorry to sour the discussion.”

“None of that.” Tyrion sets his hands atop the counter, spreading his fingers across the surface as wide as they go. “Well,” he says, “what _is_ next?”

Jon grabs his drink and taps it tentatively with his palm, smoothing out the condensation building up on the outside. “Not sure.”

As Tyrion moves to speak, he’s cut off by an abrupt shout from the front of the pub.

“Oi! Snow!” Ygritte shouts as she maneuvers through the tables toward the two. Arya and Tormund are barely making their way through the entrance by the time her purposeful stride has brought her halfway to the bar.

Tyrion gives a quick snap of his left hand and points to Jon, getting in a last word before he loses control of the conversation. “We’ll talk.”

Crashing into his side with a hug, Ygritte grabs the pint from Jon’s hand and takes a gulp. “Ah,” she recoils and sticks out her tongue in disgust. “How can you drink this piss?” She taps the counter and looks to the man she just cut off. “Tyrion! Stout, if you please.” He looks between the two, focusing on Jon who gives him a weak smile and soft eyes to let Tyrion know he’s fine. Taking the signal, Tyrion nods to Ygritte and goes to retrieve the drink. Before she starts to speak, Ygritte notices the shot glasses and picks the closest one up. “We doin’ shots, then?” She gives the glass a sniff. “Whiskey?” she asks, giving a suspicious but approving glance to the man her arm is still slung around.

Jon chuckles, honestly thankful for Ygritte’s bashful nature washing away the previous conversation from his mind. All he can do in response is muster a soft shrug.

“A’right.” She gives him a sharp nod before turning back to Tyrion. “Shove the stout; four more shots.” 

The tap peters out as Tyrion gives her a blank stare, the glass in his hand already full and settling. 

She looks back to Jon with a sneer. “So you drink whiskey now and you’re too good to help load out the gear, that it?” Punctuating her point with a shove, she continues her questioning. “Your last year change you that much? What, d’ya die over winter and come back a new man or something?” 

At that, Jon shrinks into himself a bit. “Sorry,” he says, “I got caught up talking to Tyrion. First time seeing him since I’ve been back.” 

“Wouldn’t be if ya came out with us even once after practice,” she retorts, remaining relentless, “or left your damn house at all.”

Before Jon can reply, a voice softly booms from behind them. “Let him be, Ygritte.” 

They throw their heads back in unison to see Tormund and Arya standing, their presence just as equal despite their drastic height difference. It’s unclear if Tormund makes Arya appear taller, or if she makes him appear shorter.

Ygritte releases Jon and directly faces the two. “A’right, but it’s true.” She takes in their stiff stances. “Waiting for an invitation? Come on,” she says motioning them to the bartop, turning back toward it herself with her gesture. Resituated, Tyrion meets her directly across, three shot glasses full of whiskey and two stouts laid out atop the counter. “I thought I asked for four.”

Straightening his back, Tyrion waves his hand over the glasses. “You did,” he says, “but there are only three of you who can drink.”

The other two squeeze in at the edge of the bar next to Jon, his breath hitching as Tormund places himself immediately to his right, their shoulders touching. In his mind, he credits his dizziness to the substances he has consumed thus far into the night, hyperfocusing on the conversation to his left to drown out his thoughts.

Ygritte looks to the far end at Arya. “Oh come off it. You’d think she’s older than me the way she carries herself.” 

Shrugging in response, Tyrion maintains a clinical tone as he speaks. “While that may be true, her seeming older means much less when you seem younger than you are, and while I may be privy to Miss Stark’s activities outside of these walls, I shall not be partial to them while she is within them,” he says, turning to face the subject of his lecture giving her a smile. “Arya understands that I have a license to maintain, and she knows that she is able to leave and return at her leisure, whatever she does outside being none of my business.”  
Arya returns his comment with a smirk.

“Whatever.” Ygritte rolls her eyes. “Hard ass.”

“Right,” Tyrion says with a smile, the insult falls off his shoulder as easily as it is empty, “I’ll leave you to your drinks.” He moves down the bar to assist Podrick in tending to the other patrons that have gradually poured in as the day has died.

Tormund pipes in once Tyrion seems out of ear shot. “He seems like he talks a lot for such a short man.” He grabs his shot.

Ygritte responds in a kinder tone than her banter would let on to a stranger. “Man’s a part time professor,” she says, seizing her drink. “It’s normal after a while. Don’t let him get going though or you’ll be listening to him for hours.” 

Raising her glass to the men to her right, she stops when she sees one of them dazed. “Jon!”

Taking in a sharp breath, Jon blinks back to the room and looks to Ygritte. “Sorry, what?”

“Your drink,” she says.

Keeping his eyes stalwart on her, Jon takes his glass in his hand. “Right, sorry,” he says, the buzz beginning to hit him.

“Get your head out of your ass, man.” She motions to clink their glasses. “Cheers to our first show!”

Jon’s shot remains still in the air with no motion as he allows the others to do the work in joining the three. He throws it back, frowning all the same as the first when the alcohol invades his sinuses from the inside out. This time, however, he clears his throat for a different reason when he feels a large palm forming circles on his back. 

“Not much of a drinker, are ya?” Tormund chuckles, punctuating his point and circular motions with a firm pat. 

Unprepared for the force and the gesture in general, Jon lurches forward at the behest of Tormund’s hand. Collecting himself, he throws a vulnerable look to his sister who requites his plea with raised eyebrows and a nod toward his assailant. Before Jon has time to react either way, Ygritte cuts in with an answer, stealing both their attention.

“First time I’ve seen him down anything hard that wasn’t clear or mixed with something sweet.” She teases as she tilts her head sideways. “Wait until he’s had a few more in him.” Raising her stout, Ygritte grins. “Real wild once you get him gone,” she says with a cock of her brow before taking a gulp of her drink.  
Jon’s forehead furrows slightly. “You’ve seen me drunk often enough,” he retorts, his words slurring slightly, “and I keep my wits fine.” Aware of control slipping away from his facilities, Jon straightens his posture as the focus of his concern shifts from one red-head to the other.

Her eyes glow mischievously as Ygritte notes the telling shift in Jon’s demeanor. “That so?” she inquires. Biting the corner of her lower lip through a grin, she throws a look over her shoulder to Podrick. He catches her glance briefly before attempting - unsuccessfully - to pretend he’s too distracted by the patrons in front of him to notice. Seeing through his facade, Ygritte properly turns herself to face him more aptly. Shouting down the way to him, she raises her empty shot glass, “Oi, Pod! Another round.” Nodding to those he had just served, Podrick comes to meet her at their end of the bar, giving her a pointedly unenthused stare as he wordlessly clears their glasses to refill them.

No stranger to her antics, Jon breathes in as he prepares himself for what’s to come, though he falters at the thought of appearing belligerent in front of both his sister and Tormund. He’s certain if the drummer has her way, he’ll be falling out of his chair before the hour’s up. Looking for a solid excuse, Jon speaks up before Podrick returns with their drinks. “You know, I’m going to have to drive Arya and myself home, Ygritte.” 

As a small grimace begins to appear on Ygrittes face, Arya offers an unwarranted solution to his concern. “It’s all right, Jon,” she says, leaning on the bartop to look at the two of them past Tormund, “I’ve been driving your car all year. Parents won’t mind it.” Her smile widens as she sees Jon fight to hide the betrayal growing on his face. “After all, I’m only allowed to be sober while I’m within these walls.” Her tone mimicking Tyrion’s previous statement to mock no one in particular. 

Before Jon can retaliate against the growing opposition that flanks him, his mouth hangs slightly agape as Podrick places down three more shots. The bartender looks to Ygritte uncouthly as he moves back to the other patrons, softly stating, “I’ll put these on your tab.” Paying Podrick little mind, she takes the glass in hand with a vigorous motion, its contents almost spilling, and looks at Jon expectantly.

Along for the ride, Tormund grabs the second of the three, looking past them to Podrick who is already busying himself with other work. “Must still be upset from the trouble you caused last weekend.”  
Keeping her eyes on Jon, Ygritte throws out an aside in response. “Not the first time I’ve broken a chair. Won’t be the last.” 

A strange sense of purpose overtakes him as Jon sees Tormund pick up his shot. With the most fervency he’s shown tonight, Jon takes the remaining glass, his eyes locking with Ygritte’s. “I imagine that’s why he’s still upset,” Jon quips.

“Watch your tongue, Snow,” Ygritte says with a tinge of gruffness as she leans into him. “We both know the kind of trouble you get into with that thing when you let that thing loose.” Then, Ygritte throws her shot back and lets out a small howl. 

With a blush hidden underneath already alcohol reddened cheeks, Jon throws his back as well. By now, it takes minimal effort to quell the drink’s sting and his thoughts of the larger man situated next to him; however, as he turns to watch Tormund down his own drink, Jon catches himself feeling almost too comfortable staring at the man’s face, taking the thickness of his beard and the prominence of the cheek bones, and above them Tormund’s eyes. Jon lingers on them as their color dances into his mind, taunting him as he can’t make out the distinct hue in the bar’s lighting. The eyes seem so familiar, a memory scratching at the surface of his thought ready to bring back the anxiety the night has pushed away. But, before Jon’s worry can be realized, he’s distracted by the slightest, reflexive wince they give when the whiskey hits Tormund’s throat. Almost immediately they’re calm and settled, and Jon can see their blueness now, a wave of relief washing over him as he just as quickly forgets whatever it was distracting him from the present. 

“Something on my face?” Tormund’s question brings Jon to the realization of the reciprocation of his gaze. 

“Oh, uh-” Jon starts, “Sorry, just caught me thinking.” 

Tormund gives him a nod accompanied by a smile, and Jon is unable to resist returning one of his own. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon catches Arya’s mischievous smirk, and he catches himself before he lets his gaze linger for too long and pushes down the pressure growing in his chest. Turning to Ygritte, he makes a decision Jon’s certain his sober self will surely regret; yet, that voice is a whisper far in the back of his mind now. He pushes his empty glass towards the drummer and cocks his brow, silently meeting her challenge with a steady look. 

A tilted grin spreads across Ygritte’s as she tosses a command over her shoulder, never breaking away from Jon, their eyes locked with fiery excitement. “Keep ‘em coming, Pod!” She leans forward, her volume lowers as she closes the distance between her and her competition. “We’re just getting started.”


End file.
